


Cuddly as a Cactus

by Porkchop_Sandwiches



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Christmas Eve, Christmas Smut, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 13:03:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9236312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Porkchop_Sandwiches/pseuds/Porkchop_Sandwiches
Summary: “Yo, so I’m about to eat it and break my neck falling off a stool, and this is where your fucking hands go?”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [epsilonfive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/epsilonfive/gifts).



> I really wanted some Walt/Jesse Christmas and the prompt was pretty open. This is set during late season four. Pretend Andrea isn’t in the picture, and most of the dark stuff in “Crawl Space” hasn’t happened. A certain wristwatch makes a premature appearance for my own means. Oh, and also pretend like this timeline with Christmas thrown in works at all.

“Yo, I swear none of the turtles are getting actually…hurt or whatever. Your liver though, man,” Jesse said, looking insultingly arrogant even with his eyes still blank and trained on the television, “is totally fucked. Drink up, asshole.”

Walt took his obligatory gulp of eggnog, feeling just as impartial to the bitter aftertaste of Captain Morgan as he did to Jesse mouthing off. The boy’s pixelated and surprisingly buoyant plumber-character pounced on yet another turtle. And Walt sipped again. He got a little more of the rum this time and wondered why Jesse hadn’t opted for something on a higher shelf or a different liquor altogether. He’d meant to mention that before.

“You know, a carefully chosen brandy can really compliment”—

“The varied spices and fucking flavors of eggnog? Yeah, I know, Mr. White. You said that like three times.” Walt got a glimpse of blue eyes, bright and derisive. His face still showed a few nicks and bruises from the last time Walt had been here, before Jesse had gone South of the border. “Is your drunk ass gonna be cool to drive home, man?”

Walt didn’t think he was all that drunk. The dull ache of his own bruising had lessened a few drinks back. Not that it mattered or that he cared or that anything made much sense. Walt was in Jesse’s house on Christmas Eve. The best explanation he could come up with was that he “wandered” over here, whatever that meant. Maybe the only thing that made sense was the familiar constant of Jesse mocking him, only then they were sitting in the boy’s living room glittered and strung out in Christmas bulbs. And yes, he supposed the phrase “strung out” was a bit too appropriate seeing as the six-foot pine tree cluttered with ornaments and the multi-colored lights bordering the ceiling seemed as some sort of overcompensation for the graffiti and filth Jesse had not so long ago painted over.

But no, even something here, in the glances and snarky comments, amid the truce they’d somehow fallen into and the absurdity of sharing either ends of a futon while drinking spiked eggnog, playing video games, and having dinner and smiling and speaking amicably, all the while wearing the others blows from a fight that had nearly turned lethal, something was off. It was different. He wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or the holiday or the free Chinese delivery, or maybe some concoction of all three, but Jesse was more charmingly antagonistic and smarmy than he’d been in months.

Considering the dynamics of their relationship, that meant things were good between the two of them.

Walt thumbed at a bead of condensation from the side of the Pizza Hut cup he’d taken from Jesse’s kitchen earlier in the night. The boy’s idea of glassware was a hodgepodge of plastic drinking glasses with cartoons, fast food brands, and characters from children’s cereal boxes. Jesse wasn’t actually a child. But, when Walt really pressed, it was just as easy to talk Jesse into something.

It had been Walt’s idea to put on something a little less violent after several rounds of whatever shoot- ‘em-up game they’d been playing before. Walt was the one with the flask of brandy in his jacket pocket. He’d suggested adding it to the eggnog Jesse offered despite Jesse originally turning him down.

What exactly had Walt said? It’s the holidays? One drink won’t hurt you, Jesse? Walt couldn’t remember.

Jesse had given in, of course, saying, “Yeah. Alright, whatever, man. Just not tequila, alright?”

Walt had to make a face at that because as he’d told Jesse, “Who on earth would mix tequila with eggnog?”

Jesse went a little quiet at that point. He looked sheepish as he passed a hand down the shorn bristles of his hair and chuckled like they had already started.

“My senior year of high school, Combo and Skinny Pete and me jacked a bottle of some shitty tequila from Combo’s cousin’s place. He was supposed to be like cat-sitting or some shit so he had a key. And we drank like the whole fifth, the three of us, in Skinny’s rec room. We mixed it with eggnog ‘cause it was like the only shit he had and it was Christmas Eve and we were too pussy to drink it straight. And we got fucking blasted, like we made prank calls and sniffed a bunch of like rubber cement, smoked some weed, tried some uppers, and watched like _the_ shittiest….” Jesse paused, rubbing his jaw, looking ashamed like he’d said too much or was unsure of whether he wanted to continue. “Shittiest, uh…porn or whatever.”

Jesse drummed his fingers against his knee and Walt made a noncommittal sound and shrugged as he prepped their drinks from the coffee table. He’d assumed Jesse was doing as much in high school even when the boy had still been his student. As far as the pornography went, well, that was nothing to be ashamed of. Though he wondered what constituted as the “shittiest porn” in Jesse’s book. Or what constituted as good pornography for that matter. Walt handed Jesse his drink and absently wondered what exactly Jesse might have been interested in.

“Did anyone catch you?” Walt said.

“Yeah, Skinny’s folks came back from their like neighborhood Christmas party early and fucking kicked me and Combo out. Combo’s mom dragged him to Christmas Eve mass and I had to walk my ass all the way back home. My family was at my dad’s sister’s in San Jose. They left a note saying they wouldn’t be back until the next morning and some shit about me not answering my pager. But like there was nothing on there. It was like the shittiest Christmas Eve ever. I ended up just like smoking a bowl and…jerking off.” Jesse knocked back about half of his drink and coughed before nodding to his game’s system. He smirked. “Your son ever like teach you how to use one of those things?”

All of that of course was before they’d polished off the flask and unearthed a fifth of Captain Morgan from beneath the kitchen sink, in the same half hour or so they started popping the lids off of their Chinese take-out containers (Walt’s treat), and hours after Walt had fully realized what it meant to be explicitly not invited to his family’s Christmas Eve celebration.      

Making this into a drinking game however had been Jesse: take a drink every time the opposing player’s red or green plumber jumps on a turtle, do a shot every time anyone pauses the game, finish your drink whenever the other guy dies.

“I know this one,” Walt said.

Jesse raised an eyebrow, thumbs punching buttons Walt couldn’t keep up with let alone memorize. “Know what one?”

“This game.” Walt pointed. “It’s Mario, right? The name of this game is Mario?”

“Yo, congrats,” Jesse said. He used his left hand to dunk the last half of his egg roll into the ranch dressing he had on a paper towel. Even one-handed his green character collected at least six gold coins. He spoke with his mouth full of cabbage and ranch. “Everybody in like the whole world under eighty knows this game. It’s too bad you can’t play it for shit though.”

Walt plucked up a pork dumpling and took it into his mouth in one bite, and it was oddly reminiscent of downing doughnut holes in the lab for his all-nighters in grad school. Had he’d known someone then who played games like this? That was the mid-eighties. Walt was Jesse’s age. Jesse was an infant, wailing away nights in his crib. Walt wondered if Jesse still had nightmares or if his had started to fade too.

The boy didn’t seem too pleased that Walt didn’t take the bait, didn’t jab back at Jesse’s last insult. Jesse seemed to be peeking over every so often, like he was waiting for a certain reaction. Walt shoveled in a heaping scoop of beef lo mein and raised an inquisitive brow when Jesse made eye contact again.

Jesse looked away.

Twisting his fork in a tangle of noodles, Walt wondered how much of a hissy-fit Marie would throw over him not using chopsticks. For god’s sake, Marie was spending Christmas Eve with _his_ children and _he_ wasn’t. Marie Schrader, whose rap sheet included shoplifting a baby tiara and convincing Hank that Junior was smoking weed, was allowed to indulge in frosted gingerbread cookies and Skyler’s homemade macaroni and cheese, and holding Holly. Walt was allotted an hour earlier in the day to exchange gifts. Junior had given him a red paisley tie.

The boy was looking at him once again, seemed to make some effort into acting as if he were contemplating something beyond and behind Walt, then turned back to the video game.

“I gotta take a piss,” Jesse said, tossing the game controller on Walt’s lap. “Keep it going. Try not to die, bitch.”

He was out of the room before Walt got the thing in his hands the right way, but Walt yelled out anyway, “Which one is it that makes him jump?”

Pressing colors at random, Walt found himself facing off with some sort of horned, fiery-haired, larger-than-life turtle-monster. And before he even had a chance to escape to the nearest elevated point of safety, that green, little man was falling before being pummeled and essentially set on fire until he was disappearing off the screen.

Walt let the remote drop down onto the coffee table. The glass rattled, shaking Jesse’s wallet and pack of Wilmington’s. Once Walt had won the first three or so matches of that shooting game from before, Jesse had removed the bulky contents of his pockets, cracked his neck, and said he was going to actually start trying. Walt inspected the cigarettes and on touch alone found the one that didn’t belong. He set the pack down. And remaining honest to their previously agreed rules of the drinking game, he emptied his glass even with it filled up to the bottom edge of its red Pizza Hut roof emblem.

“We fucking chugging now? This spring break, Mr. White?” Jesse said. “Guess it’s my bad. No way you were ready to take on the boss. He’s too much of a badass even for”—

Walt didn’t want to hear anymore. “What’s his name?”

“Bowser.”

“Intimidating,” Walt said.

Jesse rolled his eyes. “Yo, I got you something or whatever.”

Jesse was throwing something at him again and Walt actually caught it this time, though it took both hands. He turned over a small box wrapped in grocery store coupons and an advertisement for compression tube socks. Ripping it open through the thin cardboard, he found a watch, a very expensive watch: rectangular face, analog, a tasteful black leather band.

“Jesse,” Walt said. “Thank you…but I didn’t…”

Walt let that hang there until the boy shrugged with his arms crossed, his pupils looking bigger, his face a shade pinker that it had been. Jesse was swaying on his feet a little, and Walt had to admit his own equilibrium, even sitting, wasn’t as solid as it had been when he first knocked on the door. 

Jesse shrugged. “Yo, it’s no big”—

Something rattled.

“Shit,” Jesse said, gesturing to the wall nearest the unlit fireplace where a section of lights had freed themselves from their tape. He made like he was going to retrace his steps before he was grumbling under his breath. “Fuck that stupid ladder. It’s all the way down in that fucking haunted basement.”

Then he was dejectedly disappearing into the kitchen and returning with an ascending step-stool in hand and a roll of masking tape around his wrist. He hoisted himself up with his foot already on the tallest of the three tiers, stretching cat-like on the toes of his sneaker for the lights before he even had his other shoe down. Everything was always a rush with Jesse. Either that or he took an eternity to finish what he’d set out to accomplish. The boy worked in extremes.

Preparing for the worst, Walt somehow managed to stand from the futon and spot Jesse from a short distance.

“Merry Christmas, bitch,” Jesse said, flipping his shoddy tape-job the bird.

He climbed back and down one step at a time. The stool slid out sideways. Walt shot his arms out to steady him. Instead, the momentum had Walt propelling Jesse into the wall where Jesse was able to brace himself with both palms flat out in front of him. Walt’s hands had inadvertently found themselves flush against the slightly sagging back pockets of Jesse’s blue jeans. He was holding him hard enough to feel body heat and locked muscles.

“Uh…,” Jesse said, voice hoarse.

“Are you alright?”

“Yo, so I’m about to eat it and break my neck falling off a stool, and _this_ is where your fucking hands go?” 

“Yes?”

Walt wasn’t sure why he hadn’t moved them yet. Accident or not, shoving Jesse violently against a wall should have reminded Walt of one of their most recent interactions. But it didn’t.

Their positions were entirely different. Jesse’s stance was wide. His legs were open with his lower back somewhat raised. The configuration of images at this exact moment with Walt’s blood alcohol what it was and how his five senses were reacting, made Walt, yes _made_ him tighten his grip. His fingers were moving. They were digging past denim into knots, exploring curvatures, raising high enough to detect Jesse’s tailbone. Walt let them slide inside the pockets, squeeze before returning to their prior maneuvering. He wasn’t sure how long the boy was silent but Walt heard the distant noise of maybe three cars pass with extended pauses between vehicles.

“So… _uh_ …,” Jesse said, extending the word out, which reverberated around the room like the bass of a stereo, “What are you doing?”

“Kneading.”

Jesse scoffed. “Sort of got that part, homo. Aside from needing my ass though, like what the fuck?”—

“No. _Kneading,_ ” Walt said, lifting his hands to the boy’s lower back before following the upward path of his spine, “With a ‘K’ at the beginning. It’s”—

“It’s the shit you do to cookie dough. Recipes online say that kind of shit: knead the dough. What am I, Mr. White? Your fucking Christmas cookie?”

Walt had his hands hooked over the tops of Jesse’s thin shoulders.

“Are you implying you’re sweet?” He let his mouth hover over Jesse’s ear, breathing a little heavier than necessary. “Do you taste sweet, son?”

Walt perhaps wasn’t proud of what he’d just said, genuinely couldn’t fathom where it had come from, and he wasn’t sure of the sound Jesse made. Walt’s body felt hot though. From head to toe there was some sort of thrumming-live-wire-energy-venom, something fluxing inside him.

“Fuck off,” Jesse said.

But he didn’t move away.

Walt worked down Jesse’s shoulders to collarbones, to sternum, to chest. He lingered there. He felt a spastic pulse and breath and lungs.

Jesse snorted. “You got fucking gorilla hands, Mr. White. You know, gorilla hands? Like your knuckles are all dumb and huge and you look like you should be like peeling bananas and flipping off people at the zoo.”

Walt ignored him, focusing on the two spots stiffening beneath his fingertips.

His mouth was still lingering by the shell of Jesse’s ear, chin ghosting against the peach fuzz of his buzz cut. “Your nipples are hard.”

“ _Yeah_ , _so_?” Jesse said as if affronted.

“I did that.”

Jesse shook when Walt pushed his thumbs down harder. “Whatever, asshole. Taking a shower does that shit too. Cold weather. Seeing a real sweet, like old-school Corvette with the top down and”—

“Arousal,” Walt said.

He pinched the left one and Jesse shuddered again, this time hard enough to click Walt’s teeth together. Jesse didn’t respond at all. Walt evened him out on the other side, marveling at how firm and tiny each bud was now between his forefingers and thumbs.

“You know sta-statistically speaking and shit, more babies get popped out in like August and September ‘cause everybody’s all horned-up and shit around Christmas? Like that’s fucking insane. That shit’s not just true for you know like the U.S. but like far off places like Germany and Russia and fucking Canada. And”—

The boy actually gasped a little when Walt shoved his hands up the front of his shirt. Walt found what he wanted easily, kneading the peaks of Jesse’s nipples.

Jesse tried masking a groan around a cough. “And it’s like, why the fuck is everybody so horny? Christmas is all about families and like yuletide joy and shit. Like what the hell’s so sexy about candy canes and Christmas lights…and an old dude with”—

“Jesse,” Walt grabbed onto a hipbone, “Do you always talk this much when your fooling around with a woman?”

“You always use this much foreplay, _Mr. White_?”

That combination of words made Walt light-headed.

And hard.

But that development had begun some time ago.

Leaning down about a foot, he kissed the back of Jesse’s neck: open-mouthed and with a weighty swipe of his tongue.

Jesse nudged him away. Walt supposed the boy had been serious about his comment on excessive foreplay. So, Walt lifted his shirt half way up his chest before Jesse raised his arms as if to help Walt out.

“Hands back on the wall,” Walt said.

Jesse complied albeit with an irritated roll of his head.

But then Walt cupped the front of the boy’s blue jeans, palm filling with the bulge there, observing Jesse’s fingers tense and contract like the legs of a tarantula as he started rutting into Walt’s hand. And he could feel Jesse stiffen. It was an unnecessary reminder of how his own cock was straining in his slacks. He wanted friction.

Only half of a full stride forward had him up against the boy.

“ _Shit_. Is that…is that…?” Jesse said. He stilled. “Yo, fucking be careful, you could uh…hurt somebody with that.”

Walt couldn’t help smiling a little, grinding into the back of Jesse’s thigh as he passed his nails down the bony, bumpy expanse of Jesse’s ribcage. He himself wasn’t sure if the action was intended to be more calming or threatening. But Jesse shivered like he was cold and began humping Walt’s hand again.

Now so close, Walt pressed his mouth to almost the same spot on Jesse’s neck. The boy angled his head away like a child refusing to let his mother comb his hair. Something about having to chase after Jesse made Walt harden a little more. The front of his underwear was damp. He rubbed Jesse’s groin a little more fervently.

“Does that feel good, Jesse? Do you like that? Am I making you feeling good?”

Jesse didn’t even go as far as groan, and for whatever reason Walt felt something spike up inside of him and radiate violently off every inch of his skin: resentment and humiliation. Walt wanted to even the playing field.

He popped the button on Jesse’s jeans and shoved them down by the front pockets, boxers dragged halfway down his thighs with them until both garments fell at his ankles with no further effort on Walt’s part. Taking a step back, almost losing his balance but regaining it quickly, Walt observed the tiny, naked, isolated figure in front of him. Jesse’s lower back remained at a downward slant and his boxers were gone and the possibilities were thick and heady in Walt’s mind.

With an upward tilt of his lips, Walt palmed himself through his slacks. He thought about fucking Jesse into the wall: making him ache, making him yell out, making him come.

Jesse had started shaking again. Speaking just above a whisper, Jesse said, “I like it.”

Walt raised an eyebrow even though Jesse wasn’t facing him and positioned himself back where he’d been standing. “Pardon?”

Jesse scoffed. “I like it. Alright, asshole?”

“You like what?” Walt said, setting his fingers lightly against Jesse’s pelvic bones.

Even from behind, Walt could see Jesse working his jaw back and forth. He scrubbed his forehead against the wall, took a labored breath, then pressed his backside into Walt.

Gasping, Walt watched nearly transfixed as the boy mashed himself against Walt’s groin. Jesse’s bare ass was rubbing up and down right along the line of Walt’s cock.

Walt licked his lips and wrapped his hands around the fronts of Jesse’s thighs. He thrust forward with the same eager enthusiasm he was receiving. That damp place on Walt’s underwear had spread, maybe even penetrated through to his khakis. Regardless, the sensation felt incredible against the head of his dick. Walt imagined how much better it could be with only two fewer layers.

“ _Shit_ ,” Jesse said, almost growled. He appeared to be struggling with something. “ _Fuck_ , man…uh…can you? Can you…just…just touch me. Fucking, touch me.”

Grinding roughly enough for the tip of his cock to poke through his underwear, Walt kissed along the nape of Jesse’s neck.

“Mr. White, _cut it out_ ,” Jesse said. Perhaps it was his abruptly stern tone, but Walt moved his lips away. “Don’t fucking make this something it’s not, alright? And…and I ain’t your wife. Kissing my fucking neck’s not gonna get me wet, _asswipe_.”      

In spite of the name-calling, Walt was maybe a little flattered that Jesse even entertained the idea that he still had that effect on Skyler. Not that Walt would count it out. He just hadn’t had the opportunity to find out for himself in a considerably long time.   

Slinking a hand up from Jesse’s thigh, Walt felt slickness against his skin before he could even reach Jesse’s cock where it was rigid and pressed up against his belly. Jesse had dribbled out so much pre-come his shaft was sticky. And swiping his thumb against the slit at the tip only produced another droplet.

Enclosing his hand around the boy’s prick, Walt slowly stroked him, the sound obscene and slippery.

“Why do I have such a hard time believing that? I can feel you’re wet, son.”

Jesse gasped and Walt was too hard to care about anything coming out of his own mouth. As Jesse bucked into Walt’s hand, Walt frowned at the loss of pressure against his groin. His underwear was soaked beyond belief.

Jesse’s boxers were off. His pants were off. Jesse’s damn boxers were off.

With a flurry that even Walt himself could hardly follow, he unbuckled his belt and snapped open his slacks and shoved them down with his underwear. He let a low groan slip out as he coated himself in what he had of Jesse smeared in his palm. And with the same tacky hand, he pushed Jesse down and a little forward by his lower back. The boy actually squeaked, mewled almost like a frightened kitten, and Walt smirked as he guided his erection along the warm crevice of Jesse’s rear and onward until he was aligned directly below Jesse’s cock.

And with no preamble, Walt wrapped his arms around Jesse and thrust against him.

Jesse shouted.

“Does that feel good?” Walt said.

Jesse panted and nodded and rubbed himself against Walt.

“It’ll feel better if you press your thighs together, Jesse.”

Sure enough, Jesse clamped his thighs tight. And the sudden wet, balminess made Walt’s vision white out before he could again discern the red and green and blue lights above them. The slick, tight muscles lining the insides of Jesse’s legs dragged against his cock as Walt fucked his thighs. Crying out, Jesse pitched himself up on his toes, seemingly seeking more contact. While what he’d said about Jesse re-positioning himself was true, Walt may have been benefiting from it a little more than Jesse. Walt angled himself to rub up against Jesse’s dick more firmly.

“You feel so good here,” Walt said, moaned when Jesse did. “Has anyone done something like this to you before? Anyone fucked you like this?”

Walt couldn’t imagine what kind of digits would have come up on a breathalyzer if they had one at their disposal. He knew exactly where he’d stick a bar of soap however. But the filthiness of his own words was thankfully dulled by liquor and libido. Jesse was fucking himself back, their cocks grinding together, and that definitely helped as well.

“Hey…douchebag,” Jesse said, exhaling in fits. “You man enough to fuck me for real?”

“ _Oh, Jesse_ ,” Walt groaned.

He was assaulted with another vision of himself shoving his cock inside Jesse. But that wasn’t feasible at the present. Perhaps Walt was aggressive at times, insensitive, maybe even a little selfish here and there, but deep down no bone in his body wanted to hurt Jesse. And he understood Jesse didn’t mean what he said. It was like when a woman in a pornographic film asked for the male actor to come inside her. Things were said in the heat of the moment.

Oh for fuck’s sake, how thrilling would it feel to finish _inside_ Jesse?    

Taking him by surprise, Walt felt himself coming between Jesse’s thighs.

He rocked into the deliciousness of it all. He moved against the boy before finding Jesse’s cock again and rubbing him ardently.

Jesse tipped the crown of his head into the wall and parted his legs seemingly to get enough leverage to fuck Walt’s fist. His hips jerked back and forth.

“ _Shit_ ,” Jesse said. The word sounded like he spit it out: curt and wet. “Can you… _fuck_. Just… _just_ like…say some dirty shit.”

Though still stroking Jesse, Walt actually balked momentarily, his mind a little less foggy after his orgasm. Everything was just a touch more awkward. Not nearly as much as he believed it should. Jesse was still naked and against him, wanting Walt, and maybe this felt righter than it had all evening.

“You’re doing good, Jesse,” Walt said, testing the waters so to speak. “You’re doing so good. Good boy”—

Jesse moaned something incoherent.

“That’s right. You’re doing good, son. Be my _good_ boy.”

Jesse wiggled and quivered. Walt got a little paw reaching back to hold his arm.

“ _Mr. White_ ,” Jesse gasped.

“That’s it, Jesse. Good boy. _Good_ ”—

And Walt’s hand was wet. A trickle dripped out and down the wall.

The boy kept shivering.

Jesse spit on the hardwood.

He extracted himself from Walt’s arms.

Visibly wobbling, he seemed to take a second to get his bearings and pull his pants up, holding them by the waistband before leaving the room. He came back with two dark grey hand towels and his jeans zipped. Tossing one to Walt, Jesse crouched down to wipe at the wall and floor while Walt began dabbing at the evidence of tonight speckled on his skin.

The room was tilting so he managed to secure his clothing quickly in order to settle back down on the futon.

Jesse appeared to be watching him.

“Yo, I was being serious about you driving and shit. You can stay here if you want. Drunk-driving is fucking bullshit. Plus, that piece of shit you drive has seen enough, you know?”

Jesse smiled, observing him though with his head somewhat ducked as Walt tucked his shirt back in his pants. It wasn’t that easy when he was still wearing his jacket. Jesse’s shirt was on the coffee table, draped over an empty container of what used to be white rice.

“I assume this folds out?” Walt said, spreading his arms out on either side of himself.

“Yeah. Or…you could uh…you could sleep upstairs.” Jesse shrugged. He looked optimistic, perhaps even pleased with the idea.

Did Jesse want to share his bed with him?

Walt was genuinely a little stunned.

“Or you can call a cab or some shit,” Jesse said. He wasn’t smiling. Grabbing his pack of cigarettes, he lamely nodded to his back door. “Do whatever you want.”

Walt sat there long enough to spot the silver tip of Jesse’s lighter reflecting flecks of Christmas lights from the glass surface of the coffee table. He snatched it up and followed Jesse’s path outside to his walled-off patio. Turning, he found Jesse slouched against the wall, thumbing at an unlit cigarette stuck between his lips, wiry chest goose-bumped and pale beneath the nearest neighborhood lamp post.   

Moving slow enough for Jesse to stop him, Walt pressed a kiss to the cut on the crown of the boy’s head. Leaning back, he extended the flame of the lighter to the end of his cigarette where it was dangling with his mouth parted.

And cupping the side of Jesse’s face, Walt said, “I’m not going anywhere, son.”

 


End file.
